So, hubs found out last week that he needs to have surgery this week. Don’t bust out your rosary beads or your Buddha or call your Rabbi–it’s totally minor. (Which is why he’s feeling his pulse and pacing. But you need to know this IS the guy who turned ashen and shrieked, “What’s gonna happen to meeeee!?” when he realized I’d inadvertently given him a tuna sammie on a roll that had one TEENY, TINY, TEENY bit of mold on it. What? It wasn’t on purpose! Go to Burger King if you want it your way! I ain’t no Mrs. Patmore.)

WHAT IS SHE TRYING TO FEED ME NOW????

I know what you’re thinking. You. And You. AND you. What’s a little day surgery when he’s lived through almost 13 years of my culinary catastrophes. What’s a little day surgery when he’s survived at least a dozen common colds and three near misses with self diagnosed terminal Web-MD illnesses?

Right?

He’ll be fiiiine. I would be breaking HIPPA laws and probably marital ones too if I told you what he’s in for. Rhymes with kerplernia.

Because I love him, I fully planned to see him through this. For better or worse. For poorer or poorer. In sickness breaking a collar bone racing a Razor scooter on Mother’s Day, blowing out a knee pretending to be a Solid Gold dancer at highschool reunion, no hard feelings and in health. I have been there. I am there. I will be there. Like Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything. Only more. And better. (No offense, Peter Gabriel. This isn’t about you.) Instead of a boom box, I’ll have People mag. Trash tv. Ginger ale. I’ll make sure his TMZ app is working (Yes he has it. Would I EVEN make that up?!!) AND I’ll be keeping the kids from jumping on his recuperating kerplernia-ness. I won’t try to take advantage of him in his fragile state. (Just so we’re clear, slurred consent for me buying bling will hold up in court, yes? Any barristers in da house??)

YOUR WIFE WILL BE RIGHT IN TO SEE YOU. JUST AS SOON AS SHE'S BACK FROM THE JEWELRY STORE. MORE PERCS?

But seriously. I was all, “I got this!”

Then? He said something along the lines of—it’s all kind of hazy now—”By the way, I won’t be able to shower for like five days after the surgery. And, you’re going to need to change my dressings.”

I don’t remember much after that. I think I called my shrink. Oh wait, I don’t have a shrink. I mean, I opened my beer. And I said –to him–not the beer, “Now you are really taking this for better or worse chit a little too far lately. I am not yet 40–I have my whole half my life ahead of me! Can’t we save the Nurse Ratchet bit for Bingo time? If you want a dressing change, please, I am totally willing to go Italian to blue cheese–boom–just ask! I am here for you!” When I brought out the box of Elmo bandaids to be helpful, I do have to wonder—and I’m just throwing it out there—if he fleetingly wondered if maybe bringing English major flowers on a random Tuesday miiiight have helped my outlook?

I’m kidding.

Mostly.

But dude.

Five days of not showering? Changing dressings? While he’s laid up in bed surfing the net convinced he’s having kerplernia after shock complications that could cause blindness/ketosis/cirrhosis/deafness/impotence/male pattern baldness/typhoid/scarletfever/measles/sepsis/fungalungameningialcarpaltunnelness.

I’m not the first to blog about this. And in truth, this post is an extension of something I wrote a few years ago but never published. But now? Things are worse and I am more weary. More jaded. More aggravated.

Social media, my happy place–my daily escape, my window to the world (Shut up. I know I need to get out more.) isn’t even safe anymore! If I see one more snarky political comment on Facebook or twitter, Imma explode. Implode? I’m going to lose my shit. There. I said it. See what happens when you push the muffin top?

I love my country. I want what’s best for it. I’m a big fan of snark! Huge! BUT….we’ve reached saturation, doncha think? And to that end, I can only surmise things need to change. There is a lack of basic civility surrounding politics, and it starts from the top down. Or maybe the bottom up? Politicians don’t seem to work together for the common good–they all seem to have their own agenda, most of which involves power, imo. I guess if we’re being honest, that’s not so new. You can only have it your way at Burger King, you douche canoes!

We are all entitled to our beliefs—-that’s the very best thing about our country, in my opinion. And because these beliefs are personal–it can seem “personal” when they–our beliefs– and by extension, WE, are attacked. But. But! Now more than ever, citizens can and do hide behind computer screens and hurl nasty insults toward strangers and friends alike. Instead of healthy discourse it reads more like a food fight. Or a sucker punch. A hit and run even. Don’t we all deserve better? Can’t we DO better? Is this the best example to set for our kids? That when we disagree with someone, it’s okay to call them names and even bully them? Would you walk up to a stranger or an acquaintance at a cocktail party/soccer game/Cracker Barrel and call them a dummy? A warmonger? A hippie freak?

RIP CIVILITY.

Will that really help them to try to understand your point of view?

Before the debate started the other night, I wrote this on my muffintopmommy page on Facebook:

I really wish Andy Cohen could moderate the prez debate tonight. We could drink every time Barack says “moving forward” and Mitt says “deficit”. (Scratch that. Getting your stomach pumped at the ER when you’re a grown up is a no no.)

He could ask Mitt pressing questions like what would Ann do if he took a call in a vineyard away from the table and started speaking Italian? He could ask Barack if he’s ever done a back flip in the White House foyer and chipped a tooth while he and Michelle had company.

Really. We need to inject a little humor into this whole thing. We needs some MAZEEELLLLL!

Honestly? I was only half kidding. We can kill each other….or we can laugh about it and try to figure out a better way.

Regardless of where your political loyalties lie, chances are, first and foremost, your loyalties lie with your family. Let’s face it, the guys down in Washington—are mostly a bunch of schmucks. Democrat, Republican….I don’t think it really matters. See, I’m thinking, the gig’s about up. I’m onto them. While they wine and dine with lobbyists, with who knows what agenda, we’re at home, putting the interests of our families first. When they make decisions about this country’s future, are they considering the best interests of our collective families?

We have runaway spending while our roads crumble and schools falter and the suits point fingers and posture for the cameras. They get all shouty and start wagging their extremities. Nobody will cop to doing or saying anything wrong. No one will EVER just say, “I’m sorry” and ask for forgiveness when they mess up. No one collaborates–they obfuscate. It’s their way or nuthin’. Come on, you know their moms taught them better than that. How can you fix something when no one will admit it’s broken or offer any viable solutions?

TELL THE TRUTH! SAY YOU’RE SORRY WHEN YOU EFF SHIT UP. IS THAT SO HARD?????

Sorry. Sorry. I’m shouting. See? See? They’re doing it to me!

It’s time to start a revolution. The answer is clear. It’s time for mommies to take Washington, if only temporarily to show them how it’s done. Face it, we’re always on borrowed time. We can’t be lifers in Washington. Our families need us. But I contend that if we went down there for even a few weeks, the difference would be palpable and we could solve most of what ails our beloved country.

We’re fierce negotiators, even among the toughest of adversaries who can be, ahem, petulant and irrational at times (sound familiar politicians?). We balance strict budgets, work under severe time constraints, and arrive on schedule with our homework in hand. Our work ethic is unparalleled, as we are accustomed to working hours on end with no breaks, and no complaints. (Okay, maybe a few complaints. We’re moms not martyrs.) We juggle kids, jobs, homework, cooking, cleaning, shuttling and scheduling, and we do it all with a smile. Or a smirk. Maybe a few swears under our breath. But let’s not split hairs now. We teach our kids to play nice in the sandbox and it’s about time some of that is done in our nation’s capitol!

DON'T JUDGE ME BY MY APPEARANCE. I HAVE A LOT OF GREAT IDEAS! I WORK WELL WITH OTHERS! I'M KIND! I WILL OFFER YOU BOOZE AND PARTY SNACKS WHILE WE FIGURE SHIT OUT!

Just in my group of friends alone, we are or once were, sales people, educators, doctors, lawyers, nurses, real estate professionals, computer specialists and money managers. We come from all walks of life, and from different political parties. We don’t agree on everything, but we agree on one thing. The future success of this country depends on our ability to keep our future generations in mind, our kids and our kid’s kids. If given the chance, we mommies could solve our education, healthcare, housing, defense and infrastructure problems, balance the budget and maybe even have homemade cupcakes on everyone’s desk by month’s end. Okay, maybe that’s optimistic, especially if I’m baking, but admit it, it’s not the craziest idea I’ve ever had, is it?